


Parfit gentyl knyght

by La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Book: Fire and Blood, But the real villain is the patriarchy, Dragons, F/M, House Targaryen, Incest, Pre-Canon, Royalty in Compromising Positions, Story: The Princess and the Queen, Story: The Rogue Prince, Targaryens being Targaryens, The Dance of the Dragons | Aegon II Targaryen v. Rhaenyra Targaryen Era, Tourneys, bad life choices, dodgy historiography, problematic faves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire
Summary: A tale of a princess and her sworn shield.
Relationships: Criston Cole/Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra Targaryen
Comments: 18
Kudos: 95





	Parfit gentyl knyght

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likeplutoandpersephone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeplutoandpersephone/gifts).



> Gift for 2019 [GoT/ASOIAF Secret Santa](https://gotsecretsanta.tumblr.com/). Title and first epigraph come from the description of the knight in the General Prologue of Chaucer’s _Canterbury Tales_. All instances of underage sex and incest are drawn directly from _Fire & Blood_, _The Rogue Prince_ , _The Princess and the Queen_ , or _The World of Ice and Fire_ ; any theories regarding Criston Cole’s background, Kingsguard bureaucracy, or how Targaryens and dragons interact are my own speculation. Many, many thanks to crossingwinter for beta-reading. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
>  **ETA** : This fic now has fanart! Thank you so much to the wonderful [naomimakesart](https://www.deviantart.com/naomimakesart)!

__

_That fro the tyme that he first bigan_

_To riden out, he loved chivalrie,_

_Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie_.

\-- Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, ll. 44-46

_I rose too high, loved too hard, dared too much. I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell_.

\-- Jon Connington in A Dance With Dragons

Criston Cole had always wanted to be the hero of a song.

There were always singers visiting Blackhaven, and it seemed there were several ways to become such a hero, but most involved being a knight. And, as he grew, it turned out that Criston had a talent for combat—that strange, secret alchemy of strength and grace, quickness and patience—that caught the eye first of the master-at-arms, and later, other visiting knights and lords.

It was one of those lords who gifted Criston his first proper warhorse after his knighting, a fine chestnut gelding born and bred in the Marches, just as he was. On that mount, he rode to victory after victory in the marcher tourney circuit, until the horse’s foreleg gave out on the eve of a tourney in Oldtown. Criston channelled his grief into the next day’s mêlée and the morningstar felt like an extension of his arm, cutting a swathe through the crush around him until he alone was standing.

The roar of the crowd nearly deafened him as he pulled off his helmet, squinting into the sudden sunlight. The funds in the victor’s purse were enough to purchase a new horse—this one a Riverlands breed—with coin to spare for the journey home, and he might have left that very night had he not found a note in his tent summoning him to the Hightower.

He remained in Oldtown for three more years as a member of Lord Ormund Hightower’s household guard, and it was there that he saw a dragon—and a Targaryen—in the flesh for the first time. It was the Red Queen, Meleys, carrying Princess Rhaenys and her husband the fabled Sea Snake, Lord Velaryon. Why they were visiting Oldtown, Criston never discovered, but the shadow of the dragon’s wings over the white-paved streets haunted his dreams thereafter.

***

After King Jaehaerys died in his sleep and his grandson claimed the Iron Throne as King Viserys I, a grand tourney was announced to celebrate the occasion. Lord Hightower and his sons made the long trek from Oldtown to Maidenpool, joining crowds of knights, merchants, and smallfolk all streaming north for a taste of the pageantry and glory.

But it was Criston who would have his taste and chase forever after more.

It began, as it had before, in the mêlée. This one was much larger than the one he’d fought in Oldtown, and the flower of the realm’s chivalry had all crammed themselves into the tourney field to beat one another senseless. A morningstar, it turned out, was the perfect weapon under those circumstances.

They told him he’d knocked the famed Valyrian blade Dark Sister from the hand of the king’s brother Prince Daemon Targaryen, but for the life of him, Criston could not recall it. The mock battle had whirled round him in a haze, his foes little more than shadows to be swept aside. And in the end, once more, he was alone.

Only this time, it was the Hand of the King himself, Lord Otto Hightower, who presented him with the victor’s laurel. As Criston took it, he found himself staring at a king for the first time in his life.

King Viserys looked...ordinary. A man who clearly enjoyed his feasting and drinking, crowned king in the prime of life. His queen, too, was more plain than pretty, but had a comforting sort of solidity and verily glowed with pride at her only child, daughter though she was. Criston discovered later that neither King Viserys nor Queen Aemma had dragons of their own. The king had claimed the famous mount of Aegon the Conqueror as a boy, only to lose him to extreme old age soon afterward. Perhaps that was what made him seem unlike the others in his family.

One of those stood between him and the queen as his cupbearer, coming barely to his chest, her eyes sparkling with delight as Criston knelt before the royal stand. “But he’s so handsome, father,” she declared. Her face was the Maiden’s writ in flesh, a beauty impossible like the stars or a distant sunrise, and already the singers were praising the king’s only daughter to the skies.

Without thinking twice, Criston held out the victor’s laurel to her. “For you, Princess. If I may beg the honour of your favour in the lists.”

The princess glanced at her father, who nodded. Unwinding the embroidered scarf from her headdress, she handed it to him and placed the laurel in her lap with a suddenly shy smile. “I wish you good fortune, Ser Criston Cole.”

“You honour me, Princess.”

He lost in the final joust that day, to his chagrin, but a servant in Hightower livery found him afterward and informed him that he would not be returning to Oldtown, but would be joining the Hand’s guard and accompanying him to the Red Keep. _It seems Princess Rhaenyra has taken a fancy to you, and the Hand would keep in the king’s good graces_.

His entire life transformed for the whims of a child. It was hard to believe, at least until he watched that same child climb surefooted onto the back of a yellow-scaled dragon, who then vaulted into the air as gracefully as a hawk.

***

Princess Rhaenyra was imperious and spoiled, but it was easy to forget that when she was in the room. And Criston was content to forget so long as he was sworn to her service. Although he had come to the Red Keep ostensibly to serve Lord Otto Hightower, the princess laid claim to him within a few weeks of their arrival and the king granted Criston to her as a personal guard and protector. While some part of him rebelled at having been made subject to the fancies of a girl just past her eighth name day, he reminded himself that this _girl_ was, for the moment, heir to the Iron Throne.

More urgently and to the point, everyone else in the court knew him to be under her protection, including the princess’ uncle, who Criston had humiliated before the entire realm in the mêlée at Maidenpool.

Prince Daemon Targaryen was everything his elder brother the king was not. Where the king was jolly and unassuming, a friend to all and happiest when playing the host, Prince Daemon walked a razor’s edge between cleverness and cruelty, and it was often hard to tell whether or not he was being serious—a dangerous thing for the second man in the realm, believed by many to be the true heir to King Viserys. He was scarcely older than Criston, but his reputation was one to chill any decent man’s blood. It was said that every whore, cutpurse, and villain in King’s Landing knew him by sight, so often did he frequent their company.

Prince Daemon was Commander of the City Watch, and he spent most of his time outside the walls of the Red Keep, prowling the winding city streets like a tomcat. Lord Hightower grudgingly admitted that since the prince’s appointment, crime had decreased in King’s Landing, but added that those crimes that were being committed were likely the handiwork of Prince Daemon himself.

As Princess Rhaenyra was the only surviving royal child, she basked in the attention and approval of both of her parents, but it was her father who insisted on keeping her at his side to learn the ways of rulership. And wherever Princess Rhaenyra went, as her sworn shield, Criston followed. So it happened that he overheard many versions of the same discussion between Lord Hightower and King Viserys.

“Your Grace, forgive me but I must insist, your brother—”

“Has taken his new appointment seriously and improved conditions in the capital,” replied the king, as though he were reciting lines in a mummer’s show. It was an argument he and Lord Hightower had been having for the better part of a year. “Is that not so?”

Lord Hightower pursed his lips, clearly fuming. Beside Criston, Princess Rhaenyra watched in silent curiosity. “Crime does seem to be on the decline. However, his methods—”

“—are working.” The king sighed. “May we be done with this, Lord Otto? We agreed that the Small Council was ill-suited to Daemon’s temperament, and it seems to me that he is at least doing the job he has been asked to do.”

“They call him Lord Flea Bottom.”

“They can call him Lord Wipe-My-Arse for all I care. What Daemon does in his own time is his business, and I’m content to leave him to it, so long as it does not disturb the King’s Peace.”

“Father?” Princess Rhaenyra tugged at the king’s sleeve. “May I ride Syrax to see Laena? She sent a message this morning saying she had a surprise for me.”

“Not on your own, child,” replied the king, looking taken aback.

“Ser Criston will come with me. Won’t you, ser?” she glanced over her shoulder at Criston and grinned widely, showing a missing tooth. “I should introduce you to Syrax properly.”

“Take ten men for your escort to the Dragonpit,” said the king to Criston. “And plan to stay the night at High Tide. I don’t want her flying after dark.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Criston with a bow.

As they rode to the Dragonpit, on the far side of the city from the Red Keep, atop Rhaenys’ Hill, Criston was forced to admit that the streets were cleaner and there were fewer beggars skulking in the shadows than he’d recalled. Princess Rhaenyra kept stopping—to buy a clutch of daisies from a flower-seller, to chat with a baker who presented her with fresh-baked apple pastries—so it took them nearly three hours to reach the top of Rhaenys’ Hill, where the Street of Sisters met the Street of Silk just before the entrance to the Dragonpit.

“Uncle Daemon!” Criston’s heart sank at the delight in the princess’ voice. Prince Daemon emerged from what Criston assumed was a brothel based on the half-dressed women making eyes at him from the windows above. At the sight of Princess Rhaenyra, the so-called Lord Flea Bottom strolled into the crossroad and came to a stop beside his niece’s horse. She smiled down at him. “I’m flying Syrax to High Tide to see Laena.”

“On your own?” asked Prince Daemon, for once sounding exactly like the king. “Your father allowed you?”

“I’m not alone, silly,” replied Princess Rhaenyra with a toss of her pale braids. “Ser Criston is here.”

“Oh, I see.” Every trace of warmth had drained from Prince Daemon’s tone, and Criston met the mocking gaze over the princess’ shoulder even as his hands tightened on the reins. “Ser Criston, of course.”

“My lord prince,” he said, bowing as gracefully as he could ahorse.

Prince Daemon looked him up and down. His eyes were darker than Princess Rhaenyra’s, ever watchful and measuring, but he had the same cut-glass Valyrian beauty. “I think you overestimate your pet, sweetling,” he observed with the suggestion of a smile. “Have you ever touched a dragon, Ser Criston, let alone mounted one?”

“Syrax would never hurt Ser Criston,” protested Princess Rhaenyra before Criston could open his mouth. “I wouldn’t let her.”

“A dragon is not a pet, Rhaenyra. If Syrax took a notion to make a meal of your precious Ser Criston, neither you nor I could stop her.” Criston looked down at his hands, willing them to ease before his horse shied. It was no different from when the king and his Hand argued in front of him as though he were a piece of furniture or the princess’ pet in truth. And yet, with Prince Daemon, it was more than thoughtless custom. Every word that came from his mouth was drenched in malice.

“You could stop her,” the princess informed him pertly, crossing her arms. “I’ve seen you stop Caraxes quick as you please.”

Criston could tell that pleased the prince, though he took pains not to show it. “Caraxes and I have an understanding. And mayhaps you and Syrax will too, when you’re a woman grown and she’s had time to know you better.”

“I beg your pardon, princess,” interjected Criston under his breath to the princess, “but if you do want to fly to Driftmark, we ought to be about it, elsewise you won’t arrive till after dark.”

“He has a point, Rhaenyra. And if Syrax does decide to eat him, I’ll take you to High Tide myself.” His laughter echoed as he disappeared back into the brothel.

They rode in silence for a few moments, the Dragonpit looming over them. “It’s because you beat him in the tourney at Maidenpool,” said Princess Rhaenyra. When Criston glanced a question at her, she gave him a small smile. “He doesn’t like tourneys. He only entered that one because it was for Father’s coronation, and you came out of nowhere and beat him. He’s still sore about it, but he’ll calm down. That’s what Father says.”

Criston opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say. The tourney had been nearly a year ago.

“And Syrax _won’t_ eat you,” the princess told him. “I would never let her eat you, no matter what Uncle Daemon says.” Criston looked at her. “You are my sworn shield. Syrax knows that already. I’ve told her.”

There was nothing to say to that. Criston felt the fear begin to curl within his belly as they rode through the enormous doors of the Dragonpit. Hundreds of feet over their heads was the stone dome commissioned by Maegor the Cruel to house the Targaryen dragons while in King’s Landing. It was mostly empty now, with only Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon resident in the city, but it was large enough to comfortably house at least half of the family’s dragons, or so he’d been told.

The princess dismounted from her horse with the help of one of the liveried attendants and made her way across the cavernous space to where a yellow-scaled dragon the size of a small house raised its head and hissed what he assumed was a greeting of sorts. Beside it was a much larger dragon, sound asleep, its blood red scales gleaming in the torchlight. _Caraxes_. He had no doubt that Prince Daemon’s dragon was as ill-natured as its owner.

“Gods have mercy,” Criston whispered to himself as he watched the small girl-child throw her arms around the smaller dragon’s neck, heedless of the Blood Wyrm sleeping so close by. The yellow beast lowered its head to nuzzle her curls and Princess Rhaenyra giggled.

“Syrax,” she said, “I’ve brought a friend today. This is Ser Criston Cole. He’s coming with me to High Tide and you’re going to take us there.”

The dragon looked at him with enormous golden eyes and tilted its head to one side like a cat. A puff of smoke emerged from its nostrils. Criston took a step back on reflex, wondering how far he could run before he met his fiery doom.

“ _Syrax_.” Princess Rhaenyra put her hands on her hips and looked the dragon in the eyes. “You heard me. He’s a friend.”

If it were a person, Criston would have sworn the dragon rolled its eyes. It darted forward and, before Criston could move, he felt it take a sharp sniff of the top of his head. He stood, frozen in terror, as the dragon settled back to the ground beside its mistress, apparently satisfied.

“See?” said Princess Rhaenyra. “I told you.”

Finally, Criston found his voice, thankful to discover that he had not, in fact, wet his smallclothes. “You did, Princess. You did.”

It took less time than he’d expected to get the dragon prepared for their journey. With practised movements, the princess fastened the silver saddle chains to the belt of her riding leathers. Criston watched while one of the Dragonkeepers fastened a similar leather harness around his waist. The dragon barely seemed to notice any of them, picking idly at its scales and preening a little. Not unlike its mistress, it occurred to Criston.

“Hold on,” advised the Dragonkeeper. “You know the signal, Princess,” he added, looking at the princess. She nodded, tucking her braided hair into the hood of her cloak and fastening it tight beneath her chin.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of red, and found the courage to turn. Caraxes was looking at him through half-slitted eyes the colour of embers. As Syrax settled into place, he closed his eyes again, and Criston let out a breath loud enough that the princess glanced back at him in brief curiosity, before returning her attention to the doors of the Dragonpit.

Criston squeezed his eyes shut and clung to the sides of the saddle. Beneath him, the bulk of the dragon moved, first in a forward lurch that must have been crawling—he didn’t dare open his eyes, not yet—and then, with a rush of wind, it took to the skies. He forced his eyes open as the Dragonpit shrank to the size of a child’s toy.

“Oh, gods protect me,” Criston murmured, the fear dissolving even as he said the words into something indescribable.

He couldn’t hear what the princess was saying to the beast, but he could feel it turning this way and that, moving with the gusts of wind. They made three circuits of the city—spread below him like a living map, suddenly infinitely more interesting than it had ever been from Aegon’s High Hill—and another of the Red Keep, where Syrax let out what could only be called a triumphant cry that brought a clutch of guardsmen to the section of the battlements as they passed. He watched, hypnotised, as the dragon’s shadow danced over the city of King’s Landing like a beautiful, deadly butterfly.

That was when Princess Rhaenyra glanced back at him, and it seemed he could see the world anew in her smile. “I wanted to show it to you. My city. My _kingdom_.”

***

Some part of Criston expected the princess to tire of him sooner or later. It was what young girls were supposed to do. And yet, every day, he would greet her as she stepped out of her bedchamber, and she would smile up at him and inform him of what they were to do that day. He was her faithful shadow save for two hours in the afternoon when the princess was being instructed by her septa in various women’s matters, during which Criston had a standing appointment with Ser Harrold Westerling of the Kingsguard. The Kingsguard had a strict schedule not unlike Criston’s own, that allowed each of them to train in the yard or the armoury for several hours each day. While he missed the variety and the relative excitement of guard duty for the Hand, he was training with one of the seven greatest knights in the land, and guarding a princess who commanded a deadly, fire-breathing monster.

Even his mother had written to say his father had retired from his stewardship and they used the gold he sent home to buy a cottage and several acres of rich land, perfect for grapes. _He is so proud of you, my dear son. He glows every time someone mentions your lovely princess_. That was enough, surely. He had done right by his parents, as an only son should. But there were those other questions she asked. When would he marry? Would he be given lands and a holdfast for his service? When would he come home? _You’re a man grown. All your cousins are wed with children_.

He pondered these questions as he made his way to the training yard, only to discover Ser Harrold’s squire waiting nervously where the knight usually met him.

“What’s the matter, Tom?” asked Criston. “Where’s Ser Harrold?”

“It’s the Lord Commander,” muttered the boy, looking up at him with wide eyes. “They found him dead in his bed this morning. Grand Maester Runciter said his heart must have given out during the night.”

Ser Ryam Redwyne had been a legend in his time, serving in the Kingsguard for forty-five years. He had been Criston’s age when he joined during the reign of the Old King Jaehaerys I, and had even served a brief and somewhat embarrassing turn as Hand of the King before returning to his duties as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. So perfect was his record before and after that he was forgiven that trespass, and he had been known to laugh about his mistakes with the king and Lord Hightower over mince pies and Arbor gold.

Climbing the stairs of Maegor’s Holdfast to return to the princess’ chambers, Criston thought through the last few encounters he’d had with Lord Ryam. Nothing of note—a short conversation here and there as they followed the king and princess through their daily routines in the Red Keep. He scarcely knew the man. But his death meant two things—that the Kingsguard would be determining a new Lord Commander and that a place in the Seven was there for the taking.

“Ser Criston?” The princess’ voice cut through his thoughts and he found himself standing in the doorway to her antechamber, where she sat before an embroidery frame. Septa Isotta gave him a pointed glare and he nodded an apology at her. Of the princess' two septas, Isotta had the worse temper, but Juliana missed nothing and was not to be underestimated.

“I come with news, my princess. Lord Commander Redwyne has died.”

“Oh.” The princess frowned. “But he was very old, wasn’t he?”

He had never seemed especially old to Criston, but now that he thought about it, the Lord Commander must have been at least sixty. And he’d always looked contented, as did the other Kingsguard, but what else would one expect under a king as generous and well-loved as Viserys Targaryen?

The princess was now studying her embroidery. “I should visit Father,” she announced, rising to her feet. Over her septa’s protests, she explained, “Lord Commander Redwyne was his friend. He must be very unhappy that he’s dead.”

As she passed Criston, she winked at him and shot him a smile. “Come, Ser Criston. Your arm.”

He could feel the septa’s glare of disapproval as they made their way down the corridor to the king’s private chambers. Ser Arryk Cargill was guarding the door and he held up his poleaxe almost lazily to block the way. “Queen Aemma is visiting the king. I’ve been asked to keep everyone out, and I fear that includes you, my lady princess.”

The princess crossed her arms and frowned up at him, but whatever she might have said would forever remain a mystery. King Viserys flung open the door with a grin that practically split his face. “The Queen is with child!” he shouted.

Ser Arryk, poleaxe safely back at his side, offered him a smile of his own. “Many congratulations, Your Grace.”

“Why is our daughter not at her lessons, Viserys?” the Queen’s voice floated out of the chamber.

“That’s...a good question,” the king allowed, looking down at Princess Rhaenyra. “Answer your mother’s question, Rhaenyra.”

“She asked you, not me,” replied his daughter with a grin of her own before darting past him to speak to the Queen, who Criston could see was sitting up against some pillows, modestly draped in a bedrobe. “Mama, is it a boy or a girl?”

“We won’t know until it’s born, sweetling, but won’t it be exciting?”

The momentous news took precedence, so the king did not hear of the Lord Commander’s passing until the following day. By then, Ser Harrold Westerling, who Ser Ryam had long been grooming to succeed him, had already taken charge of the funeral preparations, and it was a mere formality for the king to confirm him as the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. As for their new seventh member, that would be determined by the king, the Hand, and the other six Sworn Brothers, and the king ordered that they make their choice within the next turn of the moon.

A week or so later, Criston was summoned to the Hand’s chambers. The princess was hunting with the king in the Kingswood, and Criston had been on his way to the training yard. The page caught him just outside Maegor’s Holdfast and led him down the Serpentine Steps to the Tower of the Hand.

Lord Hightower had served as Hand, first to the Old King, and now to King Viserys and the years of comfort and profit showed. His private solar had Oldtown tapestries, a pair of Valyrian sphinxes, a crystal flagon of Arbor red wine, and fireplums as ripe as the ones Criston recalled from his boyhood in a golden dish bearing the crest of one of the Free Cities, though he could not recall which.

“As fresh as they can be this far north,” said Lord Hightower, gesturing to the fruit. “Please, help yourself.” As Criston closed his eyes to enjoy the first bite, the Hand remarked, “Your family served House Dondarrion, did they not?”

“My father was steward to Lord Dondarrion until earlier this year,” replied Criston after a moment. “I owe him my knighthood, truth be told. He allowed me to train with Blackhaven’s master-at-arms alongside his own sons.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, young man. I remember you from the accession tourney in Maidenpool. Magnificent.” A brief smile flashed across his lips. “To defeat the Rogue Prince not once but twice in a single tourney is no mean thing.”

“There were many victories during that tourney, my lord. It changed my life.” Criston still had the silken scarf Princess Rhaenyra had given him that day, carefully wrapped and tucked at the bottom of the clothespress in his tiny room in Maegor’s Holdfast—a token of good fortune. “But I doubt you called me here to discuss my career, my lord.”

“As it happens, your career is relevant to this meeting.” He steepled his hands and regarded Criston over the cluttered desk. “You are aware, I am sure, that the Kingsguard seek a seventh member.”

“I am.” Criston’s heartbeat seemed to grow louder, his blood pounding in his ears. “Should I take this to mean that you are considering me?”

Lord Hightower smiled. “Your skill in the field is without question, and you are of an age to have a long and glorious career as a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard. But, as I’m sure you also know, there are...drawbacks to such a position.”

“There are.”

“I will put it to you plainly, Ser Criston. You have two choices. You may serve Princess Rhaenyra as long as it pleases you to do so, and when you’ve had enough of a young girl’s whims, you may take your generous pension from the king, find yourself a wife, and have a tidy inheritance to provide to your children.” He paused. “Or, you could join the Kingsguard, forsake family, love, and children, and devote yourself to your duty and the realm—but in exchange, immortality.”

Criston thought for a few moments. “If I were to join the Kingsguard, would there be anything for my parents? I am all they have in their age.”

“Of course,” said Lord Hightower, looking a little bemused. “You may send them whatever portion of your stipend you see fit, and upon your death, there will be a pension paid out to whomever you designate as your heir. That includes donating it to the Faith or the Citadel or other charitable works.”

“Might I have some time to think, my lord? It is a momentous choice.”

“Naturally, young man. I wouldn’t expect you to make your decision now. But do think on it.” He paused. “I believe that you would be the ideal choice to replace Ser Ryam, especially given your closeness to Princess Rhaenyra.”

Criston blinked. “You honour me, my lord.”

“Nay, Ser Criston, it is no small thing to guard the heir to the throne. You have the princess’ ear, you witness everything she does, everyone she sees. You have great influence. And you may rest assured that other men see it even if you do not.”

Criston’s eyes met his, and he knew they were both thinking of the same man. “My first duty is to the princess, my lord Hand. I cannot take sides in your quarrel with Prince Daemon.”

“Ser, that is not at all my intention,” replied the Hand smoothly. “My disagreements with Prince Daemon are mine own concern, but surely even you have seen his attentions to the princess.”

“You don’t believe he means to...” Criston couldn’t even say it. “She’s a _child_ , my lord!”

“You and I respect that, ser, but think you Prince Daemon will?” Lord Hightower leant forward, resting his chin on his clasped hands. “You know his reputation as well as I do. The princess is an innocent. She only sees her uncle, a man she ought to trust as completely as her own father.”

“Even Prince Daemon cannot be so corrupt,” protested Criston even as he remembered tale after tale of the prince’s dark deeds. A taste for deflowering maidens, a Lysene witch he kept as his mistress in the stews of Flea Bottom. “I confess, my lord, I have seen them together and I see no such matter.”

Lord Hightower studied him for a moment. “It gladdens my heart to hear you say that, ser. I did not wish to trouble the king with vain suspicion, and if you believe that Prince Daemon has no ill intentions toward his niece, I shall say nothing more on the subject.”

“I will do my best to steer the princess to better companions,” Criston assured him. “I certainly believe he is a bad influence.”

“Indeed,” the Hand said. “If the gods are kind, Queen Aemma will be delivered of a healthy son, King Viserys will rule for another twenty years, and this question of succession will be resolved once and for all. Even better if it all happens after I am dead,” he added with a quirked smile and a sip of his wine.

“The gods grant it should be so,” replied Criston earnestly. “But do you truly believe Prince Daemon could take the Iron Throne if he chose to claim it?”

Lord Hightower sighed. “I fear me, yes. The prince is a man grown and a proven fighter. While he has many enemies, there are more who will support him out of fear or ambition. And I mislike the king’s decision to give him command of two thousand men-at-arms within these city walls.” He shook his head, his mouth a thin, disapproving line. “They’ve started calling themselves the gold cloaks and they credit whatever power they have to Prince Daemon, not the king. But,” he concluded with a shrug, “there is nothing to be done for it.”

“Surely if the king were told...”

Lord Hightower fixed him with a pointed look. “Think you I haven’t told him, time and time again, of the danger he courts? The king will not countenance anything said against Prince Daemon. Whatever his flaws, whatever his crimes, he is the king’s brother.” He smiled briefly. “You have no brothers or sisters, do you, Ser Criston?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then believe me when I tell you that I understand the king’s situation even if I disagree with it, and that for the nonce, the issue of Prince Daemon must needs be set aside.” He rose. “Well, I shall take up no more of your time, Ser Criston. Please do think on what we’ve discussed, and you may expect an interview with Lord Commander Westerling in short order.”

By the end of the month, it was clear who the new member of the Kingsguard would be. On the day before his investiture, Criston received a letter from his parents, written in his mother’s hand, but clearly dictated by his father, whose fingers had lost their strength with age.

_Dearest son,_

_Your mother and I cannot be prouder of you and your accomplishments. You are a man grown, a proven warrior who spends his days with kings and princes. In truth, I cannot imagine what advice a simple old man and woman can give you after all these years. But I will tell you something that was once told to me by old Lord Dondarrion when I was a boy. His father was Lord Simon Dondarrion, who fought for King Jaehaerys in the Third Dornish War, and his eldest sister Celia served Queen Alysanne as lady-in-waiting for many years. He asked her once what it was like, she told him that the most important lesson she learned was never to forget that the Targaryens are not like other people; their rules do not apply to us, nor ours to them. If you choose the Kingsguard, you will spend the rest of your days at the heart of the royal family. You will know their deepest secrets, their fears, their desires. But nature framed them of different stuff, and while you may know, you will never truly understand. You would do well to commit that to memory. Whatever your decision, we remain, as ever,_

_Your loving parents_

_P.S. Is it true that the King has chosen Lord Lyonel Strong to become his new Master of Laws? He and your father were companions at the Citadel for three years. If this is so, and you see him, do wish him the best from us. He has a son of about your age and two maiden daughters. With much love, your mother_.

Criston smiled as he read the postscript. While there had never been any question of his father becoming a maester, he had forged a handful of links at the Citadel in his youth, mostly in history and mathematics, before taking up his position as steward to House Dondarrion.

_Nature framed them of different stuff_. It was true; how else could one explain the dragons? Criston could now say that he had seen four in the flesh, and one of them a dragon of legend, the old, hoary beast Vhagar who had once belonged to Queen Visenya herself and helped to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. Easily five times the size of Syrax, Vhagar now bowed to the command of a twelve-year-old girl, Laena Velaryon, the princess’ cousin.

_Their rules do not apply to us, nor ours to them._ Lord Hightower clearly understood this. Otherwise he would have rid himself of Prince Daemon years ago.

He kept vigil in the Red Keep’s sept that night, and on the following morning, Ser Harrold placed the white cloak of the Kingsguard on his shoulders.

Ser Criston Cole had made his choice, for good or ill.

***

At first, nothing changed except for his sleeping quarters and his uniform. He now had a suite of rooms for himself and his squires in the White Sword Tower, overlooking Blackwater Bay. As Princess Rhaenyra’s sworn shield, even within the Kingsguard, he remained by her side.

Then, in the space of several dark, cold weeks at the turn of the year, everything changed.

Queen Aemma’s confinement started early and she died after giving birth to a son. Princess Rhaenyra had the chance to say farewell to her mother, at least, and she threw herself, sobbing, into Criston’s arms afterward. Newborn Prince Baelon did not last the week, following his mother to the grave, and Syrax lit the funeral pyre in the courtyard of the Red Keep. During the funeral, the princess was dry-eyed, even giving a short eulogy to her mother.

Prince Daemon did not attend the funeral. Indeed, to Criston’s secret relief, it seemed that the king had finally lost patience with his scapegrace brother, who had reportedly laughed at news of the queen and young prince’s deaths. While the king remained in mourning for seven weeks, he stewed—Lord Hightower saw to that—and, upon his return to court, his first decree was to name his last living child, Rhaenyra, Princess of Dragonstone and rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

That was all it took.

Much to the princess’ disappointment, Prince Daemon did not attend the ceremony in the Throne Room. He resigned his post as Commander of the City Watch and left the city with his Lysene whore and his dragon. To Criston, it was as though a fog had lifted, and within a few weeks, even Princess Rhaenyra had returned to a version of her old self. Criston would accompany her once a week to the sept, where she would kneel before the Mother’s statue and talk to her own mother. It was not his place to listen to their conversations, so he would stand outside the door until she finished.

The conversations moved to the godswood after the king chose his new queen later in the year and preparations began throughout the Red Keep for a royal wedding. Lord Hightower had a maiden daughter, Lady Alicent, who lived with him in the Tower of the Hand and had her own lavish household that caught the king’s attention. She was a pert, pretty young woman of eighteen who dressed elegantly and played court games as though born to them. It did not surprise Criston that King Viserys chose to marry her after seeing them together for weeks, though it seemed to surprise most of the Small Council.

“They wanted him to marry my cousin Laena,” Princess Rhaenyra explained. “Her mother Princess Rhaenys was passed over so my father could become king, and my Uncle Corlys was not best pleased when my father named me his heir.”

Lord Corlys Velaryon was Master of Ships and Lord of the Tides, not a good man to anger, especially with Prince Daemon at large, sowing his own discontent. “Do you think your father is right to marry the Lady Alicent?” he asked. “Or would you rather he had chosen your cousin?”

Princess Rhaenyra thought on that for a moment. “Lady Alicent has always been pleasant to me, but Ellyn Strong says she’s haughty and mean-spirited to other ladies at court.”  
  


“The Hightowers are an old family. I expect they’re all haughty.” He pulled his best impression of Lord Hightower and the princess giggled. “But you like her?”

“Well enough,” replied the princess. “More importantly, Laena doesn’t want to marry my father. She told me so. She doesn’t want to marry anyone.” She gazed into space for a moment. “And when I’m queen, she won’t have to.”

Criston studied her, curious, but she said nothing more. He stepped back and smiled at her. “I suppose Lady Alicent will have to do, then.”

The words were more fateful than he could have imagined.

***

Whatever else one might say about Queen Alicent, she did her duty by the king, bearing him two sons and a daughter over the next four years. While she and Princess Rhaenyra had been on good enough terms at first, the new queen soon made it clear that she would brook no rivals for first lady at court. The king, happiest when pushing aside his problems instead of dealing with them, made no move to change the decree naming Princess Rhaenyra his heir, despite the growing rumblings of discontent at court.

At first, the princess doted on little Prince Aegon, but he proved to be an ill-tempered child who loved no one more than his mother, and by the time the more placid Princess Helaena followed him, what little affection existed between the princess and the queen had dissolved into hatred. Lord Hightower had even been dismissed from the Handship after suggesting one too many times that the king change the order of succession. Lord Lyonel Strong, formerly Master of Laws, took his place, but a faction persisted surrounding the queen, mostly men of the Reach with prior ties to House Hightower and Oldtown.

Criston found an ally of sorts in Ser Harwin Strong, the eldest son and heir to Lord Lyonel whose size and strength had earned him the nickname ‘Breakbones’. Harwin had been appointed a captain in the City Watch when the Strongs first arrived, but had quickly run afoul of Prince Daemon. Luckily, King Viserys took a liking to him and had him transferred to the royal guard, who by necessity worked in concert with the Kingsguard. Then, one day, Breakbones lifted Princess Rhaenyra on his shoulders so she could retrieve her pet cat from a tree in the godswood, and she claimed him as she had Criston.

Another man might have been jealous, but Strong was harmless so long as one had Princess Rhaenyra’s interests at heart. His sisters, both ladies-in-waiting to the princess, were just as protective, and Betha was almost as large as Breakbones himself, with a booming laugh and merry wit that cheered the princess’ spirits after her mother’s death. Ellyn was quieter and more thoughtful, and offered a balance to her sister’s high humour. She was more like their younger brother Larys, a silent, creeping shadow who had been born with a twisted foot and had joined the king’s confessors, but there was an unsettling quality about Larys that his sister thankfully avoided.

Princess Rhaenyra had one other lady-in-waiting who was truly in her confidence, and that was her cousin Lady Laena Velaryon, who had defied her father’s anger with King Viserys to come to court. She arrived astride the great bronze dragon Vhagar, and insisted on flying nearly every day. More often than not, the princess would join her, the two dragons flitting like birds through the skies above the city, sometimes as far as Driftmark or Dragonstone.

Below, in the Red Keep, the King feasted and the Queen plotted. And Criston and his fellow Kingsguard watched, each wondering what the others would do when the princess and the queen’s quarrel finally came into full flower.

***

It did not help that Princess Rhaenyra grew only more beautiful as the years turned, and the world grew more inclined to notice. She admitted to him with a blush one day that she had flowered the week before, and his first thought was to pity her.

For men, Criston had determined over his years in her service, were filthy brutes, from the scullery boys to the Lords Paramount.

His first task was to guard the princess, to be her silent white shadow, but he could not stop his ears, and the things he heard turned his stomach. _Who shall protect her from whispers, from rumours, from those who would destroy her in ways that can’t be stopped with a sword?_ He would not be the one to tell her, so he noted every man who spoke contemptuously of her and, at the next available opportunity, he and Breakbones would take their revenge on the tourney field. If the king or Lord Strong realized what was happening, neither of them saw fit to mention it, but Criston had begun to notice the Queen casting foul glances in his direction.

He did not hear her make the remark himself; it was relayed to him by Ellyn Strong when he arrived at his post one evening. _Ser Criston protects the princess from her enemies, but who protects the princess from Ser Criston?_ He was stewing over it when the princess arrived, followed by Ser Erryk Cargill, who nodded to Criston and left.

“I know what you’re brooding over,” said Princess Rhaenyra as soon as the doors closed. “And, before you ask, I’m not sending you away. She’s doing this to bait me and I won’t have it.” Queen Alicent had demanded that the princess give up the monthly Queen’s Court she had held in the tradition of Good Queen Alysanne, insisting that, as the wife of the king, she ought to preside. The king, eager to avoid discord in his marriage bed, gave in to his wife’s demands, and Princess Rhaenyra had been sulky about it ever since.

“It’s your reputation too, my lady princess,” Criston said softly. “A few weeks, mayhaps. Just long enough for the whispers to die down.”

“She’s a jealous shrew,” the princess retorted, taking his arm. She was taller now, nearly to his shoulder. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. The way all the women at court look at you. Like they could eat you up. They’re jealous that I have you all to myself, and they imagine wild stories where I do to you what they wish they could.”

Despite himself, Criston could feel his cheeks growing warm. “They know I’m a knight of the Kingsguard. I would _never_ —”

“My dearest Ser Criston, that’s the point.” Her smile warmed him. “Now, if you _do_ wish to salve your stung pride, the queen’s family comes from Oldtown for the anniversary tourney next week. Old Lord Hightower, his sons, his nephews. Wear my favour and beat them all in front of everyone in the kingdom.”

“I will, my lady princess.”

And so he did, riding to victory with Princess Rhaenyra’s red and black scarf tied around his arm. Only, as he urged his horse forward to claim the laurel and present it to her in triumph, a shadow passed over the tourney grounds once, twice, thrice. A dragon red as blood plunged toward the ground and landed gracefully some twenty yards from where Criston and his horse stood, frozen.

Prince Daemon vaulted from the Blood Wyrm’s back, came to a halt directly in front of his brother the King, and dropped to his knees. Plucking the golden circlet from his head, he held it out. “The Stepstones yield to you, my brother and my king. I pray you accept this as a token of my fealty...and my love.”

The king rose to his feet and, before anyone could stop him, pushed past the queen to climb down from the stands. Criston dismounted, sword at the ready, and locked eyes with Lord Commander Westerling on the far side of the lists, both ready to spring forward if anything looked amiss. That was when the king threw his arms around Prince Daemon, tears streaking his cheeks.

“I was a thrice-damned fool to send you away,” he said. “Be welcome again, my dear brother.”

He slung one arm around Prince Daemon’s shoulders and led him back to the stands, where Princess Rhaenyra had jumped to her feet. Criston watched, heart sinking, as she threw herself into his arms with a shriek of delight. Queen Alicent, clad in rich dark green, was standing to the far side of the royal stands, her gaze travelling between Prince Daemon and his dragon with the same distaste she might have offered a poisonous snake. On this one point, it seemed, she and Criston were in agreement.

The following night, Criston received a message from Lord Otto Hightower, and it was both curiosity and courtesy that brought him to one of the lower wings of Maegor’s Holdfast where the queen’s family had been installed for the duration of the festivities.

“Ser Criston,” said Lord Hightower, rising to his feet, “you look very well indeed. The Kingsguard agrees with you.” Even in guest chambers in the Red Keep rather than the Tower of the Hand, Lord Hightower commanded the room. “You gave my son and nephews quite the trouncing.”

“My lady wished me to win with her favour. I could not disappoint her.” He assumed that Lord Hightower knew as much and more of the feud between his daughter the Queen and Princess Rhaenyra even from Oldtown. “I might have preferred to present the laurel to her as well, but I can understand the King’s decision.”

“Your time at court is showing, Ser Criston,” said Lord Hightower with a flash of a smile. “And your loyalty to the princess is to be commended.”

“I am her sworn shield. Loyalty is the least of my duties,” replied Criston.

“Then I daresay you would look to protect her from all possible threats, even those within her own family.”

Criston sighed. “Do you still harp on this, my lord? Prince Daemon has only just returned. He may not stay. He may find court dull after his adventures in the Stepstones.”

“Look to your princess, Ser Criston.” Something in Lord Hightower’s voice made Criston look more closely at him. “I tell you Daemon Targaryen is a danger to her, to the crown, and to all the realm. The king listened to me once, but he has forgotten, and I have no sway with him any longer.” He leant forward. “But he might listen to you. Lord Strong certainly would.”

“And what am I to tell the king?”

“There is but one person the king loves more than his brother. If he were to suspect anything between Daemon and Rhaenyra...well, that would be unforgivable.”

“You don’t think he’d actually try, do you?” Criston asked, his mind awhirl with the last thing in the world he wished to see. Princess Rhaenyra was a woman grown now, by all standards, and suitors buzzed round her like moths to a flame. So far, she had shown no interest in any of them, preferring to fly with her cousin Laena, to attend her father at council or preside over the Queen's Court with Criston or Breakbones shadowing her. But Prince Daemon’s return changed everything.

“Princess or not, she is a green girl, scarcely more than a child. He might even try to trick her into marriage,” said Lord Hightower in a low voice. “Claim the Realm’s Delight and the Iron Throne at once.” He shuddered. “Another Maegor the Cruel.”

“My lord, these are base rumours,” said Criston quickly. “I will not credit them.” He did not sound at all convincing.

“I’m not asking you to credit them. I’m asking you to prevent them from becoming real. To protect your princess, and the realm.”

Something occurred to Criston. “How do I know I can trust you, my lord? Your daughter the queen has no love for Princess Rhaenyra and all the world knows it.”

“She has less still for Prince Daemon,” replied Lord Hightower without hesitation. “He slandered her before she married the king, claimed to have bedded her himself. Vile untruths, of course, but there were still those who believed them.” Lord Hightower shook his head. “It is a pity they are so set against one another, but who can reason with young girls?”

“I have not found Princess Rhaenyra to be unreasonable,” Criston said coolly. “But if I may have the Queen’s assistance in urging the king to remove Prince Daemon from court, I would welcome it. He will not be easy to convince.”

Nor, indeed, was he. Criston watched in growing discomfort as Princess Rhaenyra took to spending more and more time with her uncle. He had brought all manner of trinkets and treasures plundered from passing ships along the Stepstones and dressed them up with ridiculous tales. A gold and jade tiara became an artefact from an ancient Empress of Leng. A necklace of pearls pink as a sunrise that he claimed to have won at dice from an ancient Volantene sorceress. A gown of lavender silk from Lys so fine that it turned transparent in the light. She had not realised when she first tried it on, and Criston hadn’t been able to look her in the eye for the better part of a day.

He tried to tell himself it was nothing, just Prince Daemon indulging his whims and his peculiar humour. He was fond of his niece and she of him. He had even largely stopped sharpening his wits on Criston, reserving that pleasure for the knights of Queen Alicent’s party, who he named lickspittles and fools.

Then, one night, Criston was standing guard in Princess Rhaenyra’s doorway, waiting for Prince Daemon to leave for his chambers. It was nearly midnight, and the two had been talking since their return from the Dragonpit several hours earlier. The princess had settled at her dressing table and was admiring one of the books he’d brought her—a collection of Rhoynish poetry from the time of Nymeria. As Prince Daemon stood behind her, reading aloud and translating, Criston caught sight of the reflection in the looking-glass. Idly, slowly, the prince slipped the sleeve of Princess Rhaenyra’s shift from her shoulder, tracing a line along her back until she shivered. As he did so, his eyes met Criston’s in the mirror, and he smiled slowly.

“My lovely Rhaenyra,” said Prince Daemon, leaning down to kiss her cheek when he had finished the poem, “it is late, and your white knight is glowering at me.”

“Oh, Ser Criston is just protecting me,” the princess said, glancing over her shoulder to give him a sleepy smile. She had not even noticed the precarious state of her sleeping silks. “But you’re right. It is late.”

Prince Daemon bowed and said his farewells. Criston pulled the door closed behind them both and said nothing as the prince paused in the corridor.

“Gods, she’s a sweet creature,” Prince Daemon remarked. “The Realm’s Delight, for certain. And she still seems to delight in you,” he added, turning to face Criston. “I thought she’d have tired of you by now, but here you remain, as dull as ever. Ser Criston Cole of the Kingsguard.” The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “There are wagers, you know, in the city’s winesinks, on who will claim her maidenhead, and your odds are favoured.”

“Say that again, my lord prince, in the field,” replied Criston through gritted teeth, one hand tightening on the handle of his sword.

“Mayhaps I will.” Prince Daemon gave him the grin of a satisfied cat. “But for now I’ve found a far more enjoyable way to slide beneath your skin, Ser Criston.” He took another step closer, and another, until there was barely an arm’s length between them. “She _will_ tire of you eventually. Your career will go on until the day you die beneath that white cloak, but first you will watch her flower, learn to take pleasure in herself and others, fuck her first man. How will it not drive you mad?”

“Are you finished?” Criston demanded.

“For now,” said the prince. With one last look at Criston, he spun on his heel and strode down the corridor.

He was, unfortunately, as good as his word. Under his influence, Princess Rhaenyra began to encourage more of the young sparks at court to vie for her attentions. Her gowns grew tighter and more form-fitting, showing off a woman’s shape rather than a girl’s. She still spent most afternoons flying with Lady Laena—thankfully only sometimes joined by Prince Daemon—and there were one or two occasions when the two girls had returned, blushing and giggling, their arms twined about one another.

Criston had approached the Lady Laena to seek her help in drawing the princess away from Prince Daemon, but the Sea Snake’s daughter had merely shrugged. “Strange as it seems, Prince Daemon _does_ care about her. All other things aside, she is the blood of the dragon as he is. That matters more than you might think.”

“It doesn’t trouble you, how she’s changed since his return?”

Lady Laena smiled at him and put one hand on his shoulder. “She’s growing up, ser. You see her every day so it’s easy to forget. The king does too. But Rhaenyra’s choices are no better and no worse than other princelings her age. Just trust her. I do.”

He wanted to trust her. He _had_ trusted her all these years, since he was first sworn to her service. And yet...

_She is a green girl, scarcely more than a child_. Lord Hightower’s words echoed in his memory. Prince Daemon’s reputation had not improved in the years he had spent away from court. He still kept his Lyseni mistress in his city manse, and was said to bring both girls and boys into their bed. The king’s fool Mushroom, a foul-mouthed dwarf whose humour Criston had never cared for, delighted in telling tales of Prince Daemon’s misdeeds, the bawdier the better.

If he had anyone to blame for the choice he made, Criston supposed it was Mushroom.

Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Laena had left early that morning, and Ser Harrold had asked Criston to take over his shift in the queen’s chambers so he might have his breastplate repaired. Had the king been present, Mushroom would likely have held his tongue, but King Viserys was visiting the Grand Maester in his chambers, so when the queen made a waspish remark on the topic of the gown Princess Rhaenyra had worn the night before— _practically painted on, the little slut_ —Mushroom offered a tale of his own involving Prince Daemon disguising the princess as a page boy and spiriting her to the Street of Silk so she might watch the whores service their customers and learn from them how to please a man. The queen and her companions laughed uproariously as Criston fumed in the doorway.

Mushroom began another tale, one that he promised was filthier than the last. “One night Prince Daemon tells me to stand by the door of her chamber and witness that, no matter what he _did_ , he did _not_ take Princess Rhaenyra’s maidenhead. And, Mother have mercy, the things I saw him do...” He fanned himself with one hand as the room echoed with laughter. Mushroom was launching into an extended description of what he termed ‘the realm’s delights’ when a whistle sounded from the corridor and he switched, without the slightest pause, to an obscene riddle from the Stormlands that Criston had heard a dozen times before. The king entered the room and Ser Criston had to forcibly remove his hand from his sword, lest it catch the attention of his Sworn Brothers.

It just so happened that he had drawn the first watch of the night outside the king’s chambers. After the queen left, Ser Criston stood just inside the half-opened doorway as the king finished using the privy.

“I should have known better than to have taken a second helping of duck,” the king’s voice echoed plaintively. “I repent my sins.”

Criston laughed. “Your Grace may take as long as he needs.”

“Ah, Ser Criston, is that you?” He heard the king slap his bare knee. “I thought you were Ser Lorent and could offer me sympathies on my plight.” Ser Lorent had, admittedly, gained some inches around his middle since he became the king’s regular companion in the evenings.

“I can offer you a sympathetic ear, Your Grace,” replied Criston. “My father tells me his digestion is none too good these days.”

The king laughed. “You spend too much time with my daughter, Ser Criston. She has been telling me I should not eat so much. But we live in a summer of plenty, and it would be a shame for that summer to go to waste.”

“I entirely agree, Your Grace.”

“Of course you do. Tell me, Ser Criston, how fares my jewel these days?”

For a moment, Criston Cole considered answering as he always answered that question, _The princess is well and hale, Your Grace_. But instead, he said, “Well enough, Your Grace, but...” he had to stop, suddenly unsure of his course.

“But what?” The laughter drained from the king’s voice, and Criston saw him emerge from the privy and reach for the nearby ewer to clean his hands. “But what, Ser Criston, out with it!”

“I mislike the influence Prince Daemon has over her. There are rumours, Your Grace. You and I know them to be untrue, but I have heard them all the same. And he...” he swallowed. The words clogged his throat. _A lie. You have seen nothing. Admit it_. He thought of the other night, the expanse of Rhaenyra’s skin exposed beneath Prince Daemon’s hand. If Criston hadn’t been there, what might have happened? The princess had drunk more than a little wine, was giddy on Rhoynish love poetry.

“Nothing has happened, Your Grace. Not in my presence, and the Princess has never been alone with him so far as I know.” There were those visits to Dragonstone with Lady Laena, who would never break the princess’ confidence. _As you ought not to do_. Lady Laena was a young woman, almost as green a girl as the princess herself. “But I saw him, the other night. He was reading to her, Your Grace, from...an unsuitable book.”

“Words are wind,” said the king with a dismissive wave. “Rhaenyra is a woman grown and can read whatever pleases her.”

“I saw him unlace her gown,” said Criston without thinking. “She was half-asleep, and I stopped him when I realised what he was doing. I don’t know what would have happened if I had not been there, or if the princess had not awakened when she did.”

The king’s face had paled to bone-white. “The gods damn him to the darkest of hells. I will kill him myself.”

“Your Grace, you must not act hastily,” Criston pleaded. “Nothing happened, and nobody knows. I was the only witness.”

“You will swear to this,” said the king. “You will swear that he did not touch her.”

“I would swear it before the Mother herself,” said Criston truthfully. “I cannot speak for Prince Daemon’s intentions, but I will swear any oath you require that the princess is innocent.”

“The gods damn him,” repeated the king. “Thank you, Ser Criston, for telling me of this. I thought he had learned better. I thought he _understood_.”

By nightfall the next day, Prince Daemon had mounted Caraxes and departed King’s Landing in a rage. The court was afire with rumours, and as he climbed the stairs of Maegor’s Holdfast, Criston caught sight of Mushroom surrounded by his small band of informants—children, cripples, at least one other dwarf—eagerly listening to their news. “Ser Criston! Ser Criston!” he called out. “Is it true? Has the Rogue Prince been banished for good? What was it? What did he do?”

Criston gave him a poisonous glare and slammed the door of Princess Rhaenyra’s chambers in his face. The princess raised her head from her pillow to reveal eyes swollen and red with weeping. “Ser Criston, is it true what they’re saying? That Uncle Daemon meant to...?” She shuddered. “He didn’t. I swear nothing happened between us.”

“My lady, nobody blames you,” Criston assured her, holding her cold hands tightly in his own. “He is your uncle, but you don’t know the worst of his deeds.”

Princess Rhaenyra jerked her hands away from his. “Ser Criston, for shame. I told you nothing happened. Someone has been telling lies about Uncle Daemon and me, and I know who it is.”

“You do?” Criston asked, his heart in his throat.

“My dearest, of course. This is just the sort of thing she’d do. She hates Daemon almost as much as she hates me, and this hurts both of us.” She sniffed. “But he won’t go far, and I can still see him even if Father won’t let him come back to King’s Landing.” Criston was able to breathe again, but something in him began to wonder if he ought to tell her the truth.

“My lady, Prince Daemon is not your friend. If he were to force you...to get you with child...he could claim the Iron Throne for himself.”

“Of course he could,” said the princess. “But he hasn’t. Isn’t that what matters?”

Criston’s mouth worked. “You say well, my lady,” he finally mumbled.

She would move on. They would all move on, sooner or later. It was what always happened.

***

He should have known better. Prince Daemon stayed away from the Red Keep, but the king could not keep him from Dragonstone, nor from High Tide, where he was a frequent guest of Lord Corlys. Showing more discretion than might have pleased him, Princess Rhaenyra rarely brought Criston with her on these visits.

Not that Criston had the time or the concern to spare these days. Both Grand Maester Runciter and Lord Commander Westerling succumbed to the same infection of the lungs shortly after the turn of the year, and his fellow Sworn Brothers had unanimously confirmed Criston as the new Lord Commander, citing his closeness to Princess Rhaenyra and his prior connection to Lord Otto Hightower as the best path to a peaceful navigation of whatever succession crisis lay in their path.

For it would be a crisis; none of them had any doubt of that.

Leaving Ser Arryk Cargill as acting Lord Commander in his absence, Criston accompanied the princess to the Riverlands later that year and watched as the young heirs of Bracken and Blackwood fought a duel for her favour. From there, they travelled to Casterly Rock, where she flirted with the Lannister twins, Ser Tyland and Ser Jason, and declared to Lady Laena that she could not bear to choose just one. Lady Betha jested that she ought to marry both, and while the princess laughingly objected, Criston saw her studying the twins over the next several days as though considering the idea all the same.

They were the best of those days, crossing the Seven Kingdoms on dragonback, enjoying as lords and their sons fought amongst themselves for the princess. They travelled to the Reach and the Stormlands, from Oldtown to Highgarden and back north to Harrenhal, where Breakbones himself laid a great feast in the hall of Harren the Black to welcome them.

Criston and the princess agreed afterward that while Harrenhal was impressive from afar, it was ruinously draughty and the repairs would bankrupt the even the wealthiest House.

“So,” Princess Rhaenyra observed to her three closest ladies-in-waiting as they all sprawled in her bedchamber after the journey from Harrenhal (Criston with the princess on Syrax; the two ladies of House Strong with Lady Laena on Vhagar), “Breakbones is out. He needs a wealthy wife who will pay to rebuild his castle. Harrenhal would bankrupt the royal treasury.”

“And you cannot marry one of the Lannister twins without breaking the other’s heart,” offered Lady Betha. “For the good of all ladies, you must spare them.”

“Lord Blackwood was dashing, I thought,” offered Lady Ellyn. “More so than Denys Bracken. He had no manners.”

Princess Rhaenyra sighed. “But none of them pleased me as much as any of you in this room. Mother have mercy, why must I marry at all?”

It was a question Criston could not answer. Instead, he watched as the king informed Princess Rhaenyra that she would be married the following year to Lady Laena’s elder brother Laenor Velaryon, uniting the claims of Targaryen and Velaryon once and for all. The two young women shut themselves in the princess’ bedchamber for the better part of two days after the king made his announcement, and only emerged on the second morning to depart forthwith for the Dragonpit.

Although she had been named Princess of Dragonstone eight years earlier, Princess Rhaenyra had only visited the gloomy island fortress. Following her father’s edict, she made plans to take up her official residence there, picking and choosing the servants who would join her—the cooks, the trusted maids, the dragonkeepers—and counting down the days before she would be free of her stepmother and half-siblings.

Criston suspected that Lady Laena was the architect of this plan, perhaps hoping that the proximity between Dragonstone and Driftmark might inspire a better rapport between the princess and her future husband. He himself had only encountered Lord Laenor a handful of times on the tourney circuit and found him an indifferent fighter, and he rarely came to court, preferring his father’s fine new castle at High Tide.

Inoffensive, however, was not enough for Princess Rhaenyra. No sooner had she installed her new household in Dragonstone when Prince Daemon and Caraxes were spotted above the Dragonmont and he became a regular visitor, and there was nothing Criston could do about it.

He should have suspected that the prince knew who had informed upon him to the king, but since Prince Daemon had said nothing at the time, he had convinced himself that his fears were unfounded. It was only a matter of weeks before Criston was summoned to the princess’ newly appointed chambers. Lady Laena met him in the corridor, but without her customary smile. “Ser Criston,” she said, shaking her head. “I defended you as best I could, but you ought to have told her the truth when you first spoke to the king of Prince Daemon.”

“How much does she know?” asked Criston. His voice sounded like rusted chains.

“How much is there to know?” she parried, words as clear as a swordstroke. “What exactly did you tell the king?”

“I told him nothing happened, but that Prince Daemon...made an attempt when he thought I did not see him.”

“Half-truths and conjectures.”

“I know what I saw,” Criston retorted. “If I had not been there, he would have taken her, half-asleep as she was.”

“Or he might have put her in her bed and left her there. You don’t _know_ ,” Lady Laena sighed. “The two of you have hated one another all this while and I still don’t understand why.”

“I don’t trust him. He’s capable of hurting her in ways others can’t. Deeper ways.”

Lady Laena looked at him sadly. “So are you, Ser Criston. And that’s exactly what you’ve done.”

Princess Rhaenyra was seated at her dressing table, running a goldenwood hairbrush idly through her hair. Her eyes met his briefly in the mirror, but she did not turn. He said nothing, watching the firelight paint her silvery beauty in shades of gold and amber.

After what seemed like an eternity, she spoke. “Are you mine own true knight, Ser Criston?”

“As I have ever been, Princess. You are the queen of all my duty. And my heart. Surely you know that.” He did not kneel, though he wanted to.

“Then why did you betray me, ser?” There was a quaver in her voice. “Do you know what the people—my people—say of me now?”

His mouth was dry, his heart pounding. “My lady—”

“Do you know?” she hissed, throwing the hairbrush aside and rising. “They say it was for you, all for you. That I sought to lure you—Ser Criston the Uncorruptible, my perfect sworn shield—into my bed. That I went to my uncle, the Lord of Flea Bottom, that I might learn from him how best to please a man. But you know the stories Mushroom tells, don’t you?”

The image that conjured was enough to make his stomach roil. He remembered Mushroom, the laughter as he spoke of _the realm’s delights_ , some of which he could glimpse through her bedrobe as she moved. “Gods have mercy, I never—”

“What did they offer you to speak tales of my wantonness to my royal father?” She caught her breath. “Was it gold? Was it a grand marriage? Lands? Castles? What did they give you that I could not?”

“Nothing, Princess.” He forced himself to speak, though his tongue was thick. “I did it to protect you. When Lord Hightower was still Hand, he told me he feared that Prince Daemon might try to dishonour you. And then, when he came back, he was always in your company. The rumours mean nothing to a man like him, but you, my lady princess, I...” He swallowed. “I thought that if Prince Daemon left court, that the rumours might die out. That you could go on with your life.”

The princess let out a choked laugh. “Oh, you fool. Otto Hightower played you like a singer’s lute. He was no more protecting me than Daemon was seducing me.”

“He swore to me that Prince Daemon intended to use you to take the throne for himself. You must know you cannot trust him, Princess.”

“And what of Lord Hightower? Whose daughter spits out nothing but rivals for my throne? How did you not _see_ , ser?” Her voice cracked. “You are used, and I undone. Unless I marry.”

“Laenor Velaryon? Neither of you wants that.”

“There is no one else. Any other man will have expectations, you see, and my reputation speaks otherwise.”

“You are heiress to the Iron Throne, the Realm’s Delight. A man would be mad not to want you.”

“You say that as a man immune to my charms,” she observed. “I seem to be making a habit of that. Laenor Velaryon, you...”

Criston sighed. “And your uncle, I suppose.”

The secret smile again. He was growing to hate it—not that it mattered if she intended to dismiss him. “He has never played me false, not once.” Criston was suddenly aware, as he had never been before, that they were alone.

“He makes up for it by playing everyone else false. You can’t trust him. Surely you know that. He also wants your throne and he has as much precedent as your half-brother to take it from you.”

Rhaenyra was toying with the fastenings of her bedrobe, twisting and untwisting them as she moved closer. “I only know that you told my father that Daemon seduced me.”

“That’s not what I told him.” He couldn’t stop looking at her fingers, at the glimpses of skin between the silk panels. “Please...” She knew; it was in the catch of her breath.

“Please what?” Rhaenyra asked. Her fingers stilled, the fastenings undone beneath them. She took a step forward, and another, till she stood inches from him. She was looking up at him now, tears caught like jewels in her lashes. _Don’t forget_. His father’s words echoed. _Nature framed them of different stuff_. Gods have mercy, she was so beautiful. _The vows you make are for life_. Ser Harrold Westerling placing the white cloak on his shoulders. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Rhaenyra Targaryen naked in his arms.

“Gods preserve me,” he whispered. “I can’t.”

“Is that a yes or a no?” she murmured, her lips brushing his, and he was finished.

Yes, and yes, and yes. He lost track of it all. He’d betrayed his first vow, the only one that mattered. For her, he would break a thousand more. She had a dragon, they could fly to the Free Cities. He was still young, his skills at their height. There was a kind of future in that...for anybody but Rhaenyra Targaryen, future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

He told himself that did not matter, and so long as she was in his arms, it was true.

He must have slept, for when his eyes opened, she was seated on the edge of the bed, slipping the bedrobe up over her shoulders. Criston reached out and brushed the hair away from the nape of her neck. She stiffened.

“Come back,” he said softly. “It’s not sunrise yet.”

“You’re the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” she said. “Someone will notice. But the rumours already say you’re my lover, so I daresay it doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t understand,” said Criston. “You want me to leave?”

Rhaenyra glanced over her shoulder, her eyes colder than he’d ever seen them. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“But you...” he looked at the bed, the rumpled sheets, his clothing scattered across the floor. “We...”

She took his nakedness in from head to toe, and he suddenly wished to be anywhere else but here. “Oh, I see.” She was smiling, only there was a sharpness to the expression that he was beginning to recognize with a rise of dread. “You thought I could still love you, knowing the traitor you are.”

“Rhaenyra--”

“ _Princess_ ,” she snapped. “And someday I will be your Queen. But you will be my protector no longer. You stopped the day you lied to my father. All I’ve done is make it official.”

“Then why?” he heard himself ask, thinking of what she’d whispered to him what seemed like moments ago.

“Why?” she echoed. “I wanted to prove, to myself and to you, what you truly are, Lord Commander Cole. An oathbreaker. A liar.” Her voice trembled and, for a moment, he half-reached out to her. She straightened. “Now get out. Go back to King’s Landing and beg my stepmother to take you, for I will none of you.”

In silence, he dressed, his fingers suddenly clumsy. It took far too long, and he could feel her impatience as he drew the cloak around his shoulders. _You don’t deserve to wear it_. When she called his name, it took him a few seconds to turn.

She was not alone. Behind her, one arm around her shoulders, was Prince Daemon. He said nothing and everything at once, as his other hand rested on Rhaenyra’s hip, fingers spread knowingly across the thin silk of her bedrobe.

“If you come near me again,” Rhaenyra said, and he could hear the tears in her voice, “I _will_ tell Syrax to eat you.”

The door closed in his face.

***

_However it happened, whether the princess scorned the knight or he her, from that day forward the love that Ser Criston Cole had formerly borne for Rhaenyra Targaryen turned to loathing and disdain, and the man who had hitherto been the princess’ constant companion and champion became the most bitter of her foes_.

\-- Archmaester Gyldayn, _Fire & Blood: A History of House Targaryen_

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone who has encountered the story of Criston Cole and Rhaenyra Targaryen, whether in “The Princess and the Queen,” “The Rogue Prince,” _The World of Ice and Fire _, or _Fire & Blood_, can be clear on where things ended between those two characters, but what is less clear is how that relationship went from closeness and loyalty to pure hatred over a short period of time in 113-114 AC. This fic is only one interpretation of those events, and my own biases are very much in evidence. While I love so much about the worldbuilding in these books, let’s cut to the chase and admit that there is far too much child marriage and sex between adults and children. Why this keeps happening I honestly don’t know, but there it is, and this fic is my attempt to strike a balance between adherence to canon and pushing back against those more problematic aspects of the worldbuilding.__
> 
> _  
> _Thus, we have the interpretation that the rumours about Rhaenyra’s relationship with her uncle Daemon in 111-113 that are reported in Eustace and Mushroom’s accounts are just that—rumours, some of which were started on purpose to explicitly discredit Daemon and get him exiled from court, as well as having the added bonus effect of tarnishing Rhaenyra’s reputation to benefit the children of Alicent Hightower. This is a tactic that was used all the time in medieval and early modern courts to discredit queens and aristocratic women, or their male relatives, so it seemed plausible enough to me, and it fits the canon as we find it. The two stories told by Mushroom in this fic are expansions of those referenced in _Fire & Blood_ (p. 367-68)._  
> _
> 
> _  
> _We know next to nothing about Criston Cole’s background, other than that his father was steward to Lord Dondarrion of Blackhaven and that he joined the Kingsguard when he was 23 after proving himself in several tourneys and acting as personal guard to Rhaenyra. I interpreted what we’re given to suggest that Criston was appointed as Rhaenyra’s sworn shield before he joined the Kingsguard, and that part of the case for making him one of the Seven was that he already had an established rapport with the heir to the throne. Then, in 112, he was named Lord Commander despite his youth and relative inexperience because he had relationships with both sides of the green/black divide despite his closeness to Princess Rhaenyra._  
> _
> 
> _  
> _As for the relationship between Daemon and Rhaenyra, well, I decided even I wasn’t sure what did or didn’t happen between them. Targaryens make their own rules. How much was there and how much was Criston’s jealous imagination? Although Chaucer is the epigraph, the real inspiration for the second half of this fic is Shakespeare’s _Othello___ , where a man betrays and murders his wife because another man convinced him it was a good idea.  
> 


End file.
